


Remembered

by KatShiba



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Angst, Comfort/Angst, Faked Suicide, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Suicide, Wingfic, Wings, i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 11:53:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1427512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatShiba/pseuds/KatShiba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wings. The parts of someone that were very much out in the open and yet were not a comfortable topic, were not observed closely, were not asked about.<br/>No one knew why it was this way. It just felt right. The wings were a sensitive topic for many. Only the people who felt, who knew, they were closest to your heart would ask about them. Sometimes not even then.<br/>To some they might even act as triggers...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remembered

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by nai_nodayo thanks bby ily  
> 

Dust drifted through the air, spiralling and falling, visible in the shaft of light from the window. They sharply twisted as the bow was shifted, producing a short, high note, and then tumbled again as long, thin fingers drew the bow slowly over the violin strings, bringing a low, sad-sounding noise into the air.  
The tall, lithe figure in front the window struck up a rapid, frantic tune that brought bees into mind. His glossy, black, beautiful wings were spread, large and majestic, taking up a big part of the room. 

John Watson hovered at the doorway, head tilted and eyebrows furrowed as he listened. He didn't want to interrupt the consulting detective, not yet anyway. His wings rustled slightly, twitching as he tried to place the tune. He couldn't. As far as he knew he had never heard it before. Must be something Sherlock just made. He walked in just as Sherlock finished, whipping the bow around with a final ferocity and shutting his wings.

"That was a good one. You composed it?" John questioned as he walked into the kitchen, considering making some tea. When no answer came, he just kept talking. Not surprising, this was Sherlock he was attempting to make conversation with.

"Lestrade texted... something about a pregnant woman murdered in her house," he continued. He opened a cupboard and took down the teacups, straining his ears to catch the reply, and in the process of turning around was surprised by Sherlock, standing right behind him. He blinked, not quite scared as this was normal, but still set on edge. 

"You should try to be less... quiet, y'know? Freaks me out sometimes." He commented lamely, slipping past him to the teabags. Sherlock could move like a cat. Silent, quick, graceful, definitely. Dangerous when paired with darkness.

"John, I want to study your wings." Sherlock said, stepping closer and looking down at John with those piercing eyes.

"Sorry?" The shorter man asked nervously, not quite sure if he heard Sherlock right. Study his wings? What on earth?

"I want to study your wings," Sherlock repeated quietly. John just stared at him for a moment before turning away, the feathered limbs in question jerking open agitatedly. He glanced at Sherlock over his shoulder, watching the other's own wings, tightly folded. He saw the look of curiosity on Sherlock's face and sighed.

"Give me a moment to make tea. Go wait, watch some telly or something," John ordered, pouring hot water into the teacups and spilling a little on himself.  
Sherlock nodded and left as John hissed profanities. He swiped the tissue from the messy counter and patted it on his shirt. His wings shakily flapped closed. 

His mind was reeling. Sherlock wanted to study his wings? Why?  
Obviously it was for an experiment or something, or maybe he was taking down info. Or was just plain curious.  
Still, he knew that it was considered very intimate to study someone else's wings, didn't he? The parts of someone that were very much out in the open and yet were not a comfortable topic, were not observed closely, were not asked about.  
No one knew why it was this way. It just felt right. The wings were a sensitive topic for many. Only the people who felt, who knew, they were closest to your heart would ask about them. Sometimes not even then.  
But Sherlock's mind didn't work that way. Personal space, preferences, they didn't matter to him as much. 

Do I mind terribly? John asked himself silently, shaking his head lightly and groaning.  
He didn't really mind. He trusted Sherlock. He was surprising himself a little, considering how willing he was.  
He shrugged it off. They're just wings anyway. It's just Sherlock anyway.  
It didn't matter much to him anyway.

John picked up the teacups and carefully brought them to Sherlock, handing him one and setting the other down.  
Sherlock accepted the cup of tea, but kept his eyes on John, waiting.  
John stood there awkwardly, for one heartbeat, two heartbeats, three, before clearing his throat, turning around, shrugging off his jacket, and tugging his t-shirt off. His wings spread open, broad and long.

Sherlock slowly placed the teacup on top of a nearby book and stood up. His eyes raked over the open wings as he started circling John, taking in the details, as John stood at parade rest, hands clasped behind his back.  
They were nice brown ones, the primaries black at the tips. Those colors were perfect for the battlefield.

They were a fair size. When spread they were long enough that if he sat down on Sherlock's favorite sofa they would go slightly past the edges. 

There was a slight tremor in the right wing, Sherlock noticed.  
His hands ghosted over the wing's base, where a thin scar circled it. He put a finger on it, and John jumped, abruptly turning around. The wings snapped shut.

"Sorry," John said after a moment, looking down.  
This was more off-putting than he had hoped.

"What happened there?" Sherlock said, disregarding the other man's apparent discomfort. John made an undignified noise and clenched his fists.  
It wasn't that he didn't want to share it with Sherlock, no. He never minded, it actually made him feel better. But the memory was less than pleasant. 

"In the war. Obviously. When I was captured, they... they were torturing us. I had a friend there, Roger Garott. They took his wings off," He said, shuddering for a moment, and continued.

"His screams were terrible. I was next. They had slid the small knife around my right wing, just to tease me... and then they were raising a butcher knife."  
John paused again, clearly upset. Sherlock broke the silence. 

"Then you were rescued before anything else could happen," he said.  
John shook his head and laughed, a strained, terribly fake laugh.

"Sorry. We didn't really talk about it afterwards. Too horrifying. And we were always with Roger, of course we wouldn't..." he trailed off, staring at space for a while.

"We didn't want to be cruel. He was never the same afterwards," he quietly said before he turned around again and stood very still.

Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder, and when the army doctor looked back, gave him a tentative smile, which John returned, albeit a small one.  
He was touched at Sherlock's somewhat rare gesture that, coming from him, showed so much concern and care.  
Sometimes he forgot how human the detective could be.

Sherlock continued his examination, stretching the wings, studying how they were layered, taking note of how they moved, measuring, prodding. He took great care with them, attempting to keep John comfortable and relaxed as much as possible.

John had his eyes closed, listening to the sound of Sherlock's footsteps and talking to himself. Occasionally they stopped as he wrote something down. Strangely enough he felt content and lighthearted. It went on for so long that John was convinced he was going to nod off in a few minutes when Sherlock clapped his hands together and startled him.

"You done?" John asked, cracking his eye open and peered at Sherlock, who was bent over his laptop and typing away, his raven-like wings rustling restlessly.

"Yes. Thank you for allowing me this privilege," Sherlock mumbled. John just nodded and let his wings fall closed. He tugged his shirt back on and sat down, picking up his teacup and taking a sip as he thoughtfully watched Sherlock type. 

"May I see yours?" 

The moment the question slipped out he went red and mentally slapped himself.

"Oh, Jesus... Sorry, I didn't mean that...I didn't mean... Christ," He stuttered, rubbing his hands over his eyes.  
To his surprise, Sherlock straightened up and unbuttoned his shirt, slipping it off and spreading his wings.

"Sure. I thought you'd like to see them, and I don't mind," he said tonelessly, grabbing his laptop and supporting it with one hand, typing with the other.

John stood up uncertainly and set the cup down yet again. He approached Sherlock, tentatively reaching out to touch the soft, beautiful feathers.  
The wings were large, large enough to fill the room. They glistened strangely with a bluish sheen under the light. They were absolutely beautiful.

Many times, when Sherlock got himself hurt and refused to properly treat the wounds, John had gotten the chance to look closely at his wings, but he never got tired of it. They were always extraordinarily captivating and he loved them.

John ran his hand over the few scars that had accumulated, stroking the rather larger ones as he remembered putting antiseptic on them, remembered how stubborn Sherlock had been through the procedure, remembered how Sherlock fingered restlessly with the gauze on his wings, and remembered--

_Sherlock, tossing the phone aside, arms spread as he leaned forward. His wings didn't even twitch, helplessly buffeted by the wind as he hurtled towards the pavement._

_Sherlock, lying on the ground, eyes wide open, blood pooling around him, wings crumpled and useless._

_Sherlock, being hoisted up onto the stretcher, being carried away, and all that remained were a few bedraggled black feathers in the glaring red._

_Sherlock, pale, cold, dead, gone--_

"John. John?"  
Sherlock was facing him, concern on his face, snapping his fingers in front of John's face.

"Are you alright?"

John blinked rapidly, flinching away from Sherlock as he ran his hand through his hair. 

"Yeah. Yeah. I'm fine. It's okay, really," he rambled, stepping away and maneuvering himself into the seat behind him.

Sherlock frowned and sat down in the seat opposite to John.  
He studied his face, taking in how pale he was, how his breathing was so shallow and quick, how lost he looked, and how his eyes darted over Sherlock, as if he was trying to convince himself that the taller man was real. 

"You remembered... didn't you?" Sherlock asked, sighing and leaning back.  
John nodded and took some deep, steady breaths, and closed his eyes.

"I'm fine. Don't worry about it," he said miserably.

Damn. Just why, why was he still so affected? It's been what, two years. A few months since Sherlock came back. And still it haunted him. Still does, apparently.

John opened his eyes and was startled to see that Sherlock's face held an emotion that he had never seen on his face- guilt.

"I didn't know I affected you this much because of that," Sherlock muttered.

John said nothing, and the silence that stretched between them was heavy.

Sherlock broke it first, obviously.

"I'm really, really, sorry, John Hamish Watson. I promise I won't fall again without at least flapping my wings."

"How poetic," John said, voice strangely high and choked. And he started laughing.  
Sherlock shook his head, and after a moment's hesitation, laughed too.

They laughed until tears sprung to their eyes, and then John was crying, and still laughing as Sherlock, surprisingly, hugged him and ruffled his hair and held him and told him it's done, he's here, he won't leave him again.

Laughing was the only way to deal with it right now.

**Author's Note:**

> Hahahahaha not sorry.


End file.
